


I am writing this from aboard a pirate ship.

by Wilde_Shade



Category: Candle Cove
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-25
Updated: 2013-12-25
Packaged: 2018-01-06 01:04:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1100627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wilde_Shade/pseuds/Wilde_Shade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Please send help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I am writing this from aboard a pirate ship.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [stockingsandseams](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stockingsandseams/gifts).



When I was a little girl I lived in a two bedroom apartment. My parents had one bedroom. The big bedroom. The master bedroom. My sister and I shared the other bedroom. The small bedroom. The room that used to be my father’s office before my sister and I came along.

 

She was older than me. My sister. Just by two years, but it felt like eons. She would always be older than me by two years and five months and six days. She would always be two years smarter, two years braver, two years wiser in the ways of the world. She could write before I could, even though I was the storyteller in the family. Even when I learned, my handwriting was cramped and bad and slanting off at odd angles. Hers was perfection by comparison; neatly spaced letters with bubbly little flowers dotting every “i”.

 

She could use semicolons. She knew where commas went. She could spell words at 9 that I still have to sound out at 36. And I’m a school teacher. Well, a third grade teacher. I used to be.

 

Anyway.

 

Our mother didn’t like us playing outside on our own. Most kids I knew got to roam free in those days. Not us. Mom was paranoid. She had a cousin who was about our age when she went out to the park with friends and never came home. So we were left to our own, indoor, devices.

 

I liked telling stories, like I said. Lily would take dictation. Since my handwriting was - you know - awful.

 

That was my sister. Lily [REDACTED]. I’m Rose [REDACTED]. Our parents owned a plant nursery and adjoining flower arrangement shoppe: [REDACTED]. They’ve both been dead for a while. Natural causes. I think.

 

Anyway.

 

We wrote stories and, sometimes, we’d act them out after. I always had to play the boy parts. We had fun.

 

Sometimes we watched TV, but not often. The set we had didn’t pick up much two little girls wanted to watch. Just Looney Tunes and the Muppet Show and a show about pirates.

 

The show about pirates was called Candle Cove, and we never missed it. I couldn’t have told you why at the time. I don’t remember either of us particularly enjoying it. Maybe, I’d have told you, it was because it was the only thing on or maybe we just liked being scared.

 

Because we were. We were scared. We would sit in front of the big turn-dial TV-set, Indian style on the shag carpet, and hold hands. It wasn’t something we did often. Our parents thought it was sweet. They didn’t know we were scared. Maybe we didn’t know we were scared. We were always smiling and laughing and referencing it in our games.

 

Lily looming over a cave made out of a down comforter and sofa cushions: “YOU HAVE TO GO INSIDE, Rose.”

 

Lily dodging her pre-bedtime shower: “I’m not Lily, I’m the SKIN-TAKER! I can’t take a shower! This skin is new! That’ll ruin it!”

 

The SKIN-TAKER scared me the most. I don’t know if I realized that then.

 

I know we were scared now. I still remember the nightmares.

 

I don’t want to talk about the nightmares.

 

Anyway.

 

Lily disappeared.

 

It did not happen in the park. It happened at home. I disappeared, too.

 

We disappeared at night, and I didn’t remember much. I was too sleepy. What I remember is fuzzy and dreamlike, being held and being carried, being outside in the dark like getting home from a beach vacation and having your dad carry you in to bed, just barely awake. Just barely.

 

When I woke up, it was in my white sleigh bed. My grandmother was calling me down for breakfast. Gran watched me on Saturdays. Mom worked weekends. I didn’t know my dad. I’d never met him.

 

I wasn’t Rose [REDACTED]. I was Frances [REDACTED]. I had always been Frances [REDACTED]. I’d never met Lily or my parents. I had a new mom now, a mom who let me play outside alone, a mom with a TV that picked up all the stations - that’s where I found the stories.

 

I didn’t much care for TV. I liked riding bikes with my friends, climbing trees. If I was stuck inside, I liked to play with my dollhouse or read. I noticed when the TV stopped working only because Gran wouldn’t stop complaining about how she was missing her soaps.

 

They called a repairman. I was an overly friendly kid, the kind that asks a lot of questions. I remember sitting on the sofa while he worked. I remember the dark V-shape of sweat on the back of his t-shirt, watching him self-consciously hitch his pants up every few seconds, leaning around the TV he’d slid back from the wall, grunting the occasional dismissive response back at me.

 

I think I was asking him what his favorite kind of tree was when he opened up the TV and all the pages spilled out. Pages and pages filled with little girl’s handwriting.

 

The repairman seemed baffled. Gran was furious, told me I could have burned the house down.

 

“Did you put those in there?” she’d demanded, and I had said no. I hadn’t put them there, though they were my stories. I was sent to my room.

 

When mom got home, she defended me.

 

“It’s not her handwriting, mother.”

 

“One of her little friends did it then.”

 

“Is that true, Fran? Did one of your friends do this?”

 

But I couldn’t answer her. I could only stare at the stories I both had and had not written, with little flowers dotting every “i”.

 

It was about a week after this that I ran away from home. To home. To Rose and Lily’s home.

 

I looked at a map before I left and stole the wallet from mom’s purse and packed a loaf of bread and peanut butter and several juice packets in my school bag. I had a general idea of where I was going. Rose had visited her aunt and uncle in [REDACTED] almost every holiday. I remembered that now, and it wasn’t so far from here.

 

No one gave me any trouble on the bus. I suppose I looked like I knew what I was doing. I must have felt like I did. I was two little girls, Rose and Frances. Between us, we had almost 17 years of life experience. It was dark by the time I arrived in [REDACTED]. From there, home was easy enough to find. I marched right up to my front door and knocked.

 

Dad answered the door. I can’t remember what I said. I’m sure it was all mostly unintelligible. I was crying and didn’t know what to say. I think I must have finally managed something like, “You’re my dad, right?”

 

He didn’t know who I was.

 

Mom came to the door too after a while. She didn’t recognize me either. I cried harder.

 

They brought me inside and sat me down on the coach, on cushions that had once been caves in my imagination, in Lily’s imagination, in Candle Cove.

 

Dad asked me what my name was while mom went to the kitchen and brought back juice. He asked me where my parents lived and if I had a number I could reach them at. I didn’t answer any of his questions. I couldn’t. I was too focused on the familiar little girl staring at me from the recliner.

 

Her brown hair was in a bob cut. Her eyes were dark and wide and animated. She was sitting there in a Peter Pan night gown, legs folded up beneath her while she clutched at her ankles.

 

“You’re Janice,” I said, and her anxious eyes danced. She pulled in her knees and shrank back into the recliner, hands and feet disappearing beneath her nightgown.

 

My dad smiled at me. “That’s [REDACTED],” he said.

 

“She’s our little girl,” mom said gently, leaning over the back of the sofa to hand me apple juice. “I’d be worried sick if she went missing. I bet someone’s worried about you right now.”

 

I started screaming then, still crying. I overturned the juice during my outburst, and it spilled down my lap and got all over the sofa. “No! She’s not your daughter!” I shouted as it dripped onto the shag carpet. “I’m your daughter! And Lily! You named us after flowers! My name is Rose! I want to come home! I want Lily! Make Janice go back to Candle Cove! I want to come home!”

 

Anyway.

 

They ended up calling the police when I wouldn’t calm down enough to tell them any name and address other than “Rose!” and “Here!”

 

The police were nice. Mother and Gran were upset, to put it mildly. It upset them more when I drug my feet and refused to go home with them. I couldn’t stand being two little girls. I needed it all straightened out. I was so confused.

 

For days I was hysterical. Mother sent me to a psychiatric hospital for a while. I met with doctors and took medicine and at 4 we sat in a big semi circle with other children to discuss our respective problems.

 

After a couple of weeks I decided one family was better than none. I came around to treatment and was sent home on week three. For several years I went to therapy to manage my dissociative feelings. I put Rose behind me. I moved on with my life, went to college, became a teacher. I taught third grade. I’m a good teacher. I like kids. Life was good. Life was fine. I guess.

 

Anyway.

 

I do this thing

 

I did this thing when I was a teacher where I had them write a journal in the morning. I would write on the dry-erase board: “What did you do over the Summer?” or “Name three things you’d like to be when you grow up.” or “What is your favorite TV show?”

 

They would come in to class, put up their book bags, and take out their notebooks. They would write a paragraph then and, after they had, I would call on two or three of them to read theirs out loud.

 

The first student I called on said their favorite show was Adventure Time. The second student said they liked Once Upon a Time. The third said Candle Cove.

 

The student was [REDACTED]. He was sort of a disciplinary problem. That’s why I called on him. He was a great kid, but he had a tendency to pick fights and steal school supplies and swear. Something was a little off about his parents.

 

Anyway.

 

Most of the class got very quiet and still. They exchanged these furtive little looks, like he was telling on someone, someone who would be mad he told.

 

I don’t remember the paragraph exactly. I think it went something like:

 

My favorite show is Candle Cove. I don’t think it’s scary. I try to watch it every day. My favorite character on the show is HORACE HORRIBLE.

 

That last line caused some controversy. I think it went something like:

 

“HORACE HORRIBLE is too scary.”

 

“I think he looks cool.”

 

“PIRATE PERCY is the best.”

 

“He’s scary too!”

 

And then from the back, one little girl spoke up: “Lily isn’t scary. I like Lily.”

 

I must not have said anything for a while. All the chatter had died down when they got my attention.

 

“Ms. Frances?” they were calling “Ms. Frances?”

 

“What time does Candle Cove come on?” I asked. “What station? What day?”

 

“4.”

 

“Channel 58.”

 

“Every day.”

 

Anyway.

 

I tried it. I didn’t really watch TV. Mostly I just watched things on my computer. I had a television I used for movies sometimes. It had a digital converter on it, but I hardly even used the thing.

 

At 3:57, I turned it on. I had no channel 58. There was only static. I jiggled things on my digital converter some, like that might give me a picture.

 

3:58

 

3:59

 

4:00

 

I thought maybe the static jumped a little and got darker, but there was nothing. I couldn’t watch Candle Cove, but that didn’t mean Candle Cove couldn’t watch me.

 

Anyway.

 

The last day I worked as a school teacher was a Tuesday. First thing in the school day, a student entered my classroom and handed me a letter. I thought it was from their parents. I knew better the moment I unfolded it. With the “i”s dotted in little flowers, it read:

 

‘I am writing this from aboard a pirate ship. Rose please help me.’

 

“Where did you get this?” I asked [REDACTED], the girl who had brought me the first letter. She looked pale and frightened.

 

[REDACTED] just chewed her bottom lip and shrugged.

 

The fourth student who entered the classroom brought me a different letter:

 

‘I saw you but you couldn’t see me. Rose please help me.’

 

The sixth student who entered:

 

‘I am writing this from aboard a pirate ship. Rose please help me.’

 

Another:

 

‘I am writing this from aboard a pirate ship. Rose please help me.’

 

Another:

 

‘I saw you but you couldn’t see me. Rose please help me.’

 

By the time the bell to commence class rang, I was trembling. “I’m not Rose,” I told them. “Why would you give these to me? I’m not Rose!”

 

Anyway.

 

I took some time off after that.

 

That night, I thought I heard the TV come on. I swear I heard the static. When I finally got up the courage to go check, it was off. Maybe that should have comforted me, but it didn’t. I could still hear the static. The noise was stuck in my head, like when your ears won’t stop ringing. It made me paranoid.

 

I’m not sure when I decided to take the trip. I packed a duffel bag and just started driving one day. I was going to [REDACTED]. Even though her parents

 

my parents

 

our parents

 

were already dead [REDACTED] still lived around there. I’d found her online and, with where I lived now, that made it a pretty long trip.

 

She lived out of the city, out past fields full of crops and one with a bunch of emu. Her house was a little white split-level on about an acre of land. There was a swing on the porch and a playground set on the lawn that was spotted green with mold.

 

I knocked on the door.

 

Janice answered it.

 

Seeing her now, I couldn’t think of her as anyone but. Her hair was still in the same bob-cut. Her eyes were a little less wild but certainly just as animated.

 

I introduced myself as the girl who had shown up one night and thrown a tantrum until the police came. I didn’t see any point in hiding it.

 

Janice smiled, said she remembered, and invited me in.

 

Inside, the house was cozy in a kitsch way. The shelves were laden with porcelain animals and, on the wall, a kit-kat clock provided the house’s only noise: a steady _tick-tock, tick-tock_.

 

On the floor, I noticed one of those little plastic workbenches for kids. “Do you have children?”

 

“Two,” said Janice. “They get home at about 4.”

 

I took a chance. “Just in time for Candle Cove?” I asked.

 

Janice’s reaction wasn’t what I expected. “You watch Candle Cove?” She looked so excited. She was grinning.

 

I told her I didn’t watch it anymore. “I think I watched it when I was a kid, though. In fact, I could have sworn you were on it.”

 

Janice pawed the air in my direction in that flattered, ‘Oh, stop.’ kind of gesture. “I look like Janice, right. I get that a lot.”

 

I looked at her and I asked, “Really?”

 

She nodded. “All the time. I wasn’t, of course, but you could say I’m a fan.”

 

“Oh?” I said.

 

She grinned wide then, showing teeth. “The biggest.” Janice led me down the hall and into a small room.

 

I stopped at the doorway, when I saw what was inside. There were marionettes and props, all from Candle Cove. I recognized PIRATE PERCY and HORACE HORRIBLE and SKIN-TAKER. There was even a big, foam LAUGHINGSTOCK propped against a far wall, its jaw lolling open.

 

“Where did you get all this?” I asked Janice.

 

“I know the showrunners,” she replied, still grinning her big grin.

 

I asked her how she knew the showrunners, but she was pretty evasive. “Who are the showrunners?” I asked instead.

 

“Really nice people,” Janice assured me. “Puppeteers. There’s a group of them.”

 

“Have they always run the show?” I asked.

 

“Oh, yes,” said Janice. “There wouldn’t be a Candle Cove without them.”

 

That seemed like a long time for the same people to run a show. “When did Candle Cove start?” I asked.

 

Janice’s grin fell then, and she reached up to pluck at PIRATE PERCY’S strings, making him sway. “I don’t know,” she admitted, and her voice sounded kind of distant when she did, like she was really giving it serious thought. “I remember watching it a long, long time ago, when I was a little girl.”

 

I nodded. “I watched it when I was a little girl, too.”

 

But Janice just shook her head. “No, no,” she said, waving her hand dismissively. “Before that. I’ll have to ask the showrunners.”

 

I told her not to bother, but she wouldn’t hear of it. She told me to leave my name and number. “Isn’t it about time for your kids to get home?” I asked her.

 

The corner of Janice’s mouth quirked, like I’d said something so weird it was a little funny. “What?” she asked.

 

“Your kids,” I said. “You said they get home at four, and-” I didn’t really get to finish that thought. Janice jostled by me, through the doorway and down the hall. I didn’t want to be alone with that collection of hers; I followed her.

 

Janice stopped in the living room, in front of the TV. She got right up next to the screen and changed it to channel 58, where there was nothing but static. She was staring at the screen, and I wanted to just leave, but I had to ask. “Do you know Lily?”

 

“Shh,” hissed Janice, and she kept watching static.

 

I heard something moving in the ceiling, I thought, maybe, it was squirrels.

 

“Are you sure you were never in Candle Cove?”

 

“Shh,” hissed Janice again, louder this time and without ever taking her eyes from the screen.

 

I heard the noises in the ceiling again and something near it caught my eye. It looked like wires, strings or something, over the TV and over Janice, over me.

 

I don’t think I had any reason to visit Janice but, even right then, I wanted to think I did. Before I ran outside, I took a post-it from my purse. I wrote down my name and number and stuck it on the fridge.

 

Then I ran.

 

Then I got to my car.

 

Then I drove.

 

It was a long trip back home. I drove until it was dark, and then I thought about getting a motel room, but motel rooms generally have televisions. I didn’t much want to be around a television then.

 

Instead, I found a Wal-Mart. I parked my car near the back of the lot and put my seat down. There was a lamppost nearby that sent in yellow light through the windshield, but I didn’t mind it too much.

 

Anyway.

 

I want to say I slept about an hour before Janice called.

 

I answered my cellphone without thinking and when I did, there was sobbing on the other end.

 

“I remember,” said Janice, through sniffles and tears. “When I was a little girl… My brothers and I, we would all sit around the radio and listen to Candle Cove.”

 

There was static in my head. I wasn’t sure I was hearing her right. “What?” I asked. I was still very drowsy.

 

“Oh, Rose,” she sobbed. “Oh, Rose. I talked to the showrunners about you. You should run.”

 

I couldn’t run, though. I was transfixed. The static wasn’t just in my head anymore. It was coming from the radio. Something was unfolding itself from the radio.

 

There’s a group of them.

 

They’re puppeteers.

 

Anyway.

 

I found my sister. She looks just like I remember her. She’s the same age and everything. Me, I’m too old for Candle Cove.

 

I’m the SKIN-TAKER’S new coat.

 

He wears me when it’s cold out.

 

The rest of the time, I’m on the LAUGHINGSTOCK. With Lily.

 

I am writing this from aboard a pirate ship. My sister took dictation.

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to write so many treats this year. Instead I got the flu for the holidays. I might not be able to think too clearly at the moment, but I think I can assume an out-of-it narrative voice while out-of-it and write a creepypasta fic. What could go wrong?
> 
> Seriously, though. I really wanted to finish this treat. I hope nothing went wrong.


End file.
